


waiting on the right words

by iwasfollowingyou



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, it's not ENTIRELY divergent but it is slightly different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:41:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: The door is slightly ajar, held open by a newspaper shoved between it and the doorframe. When there’s no answer from inside the room, Boris pushes the door open.“Potter!”The room is trashed, the sheets falling off of the bed and empty bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. Boris’ heart stops as his eyes fall on Theo’s form, spread out in the middle of the mattress.“Potter?”No response.





	waiting on the right words

**Author's Note:**

> your usual goldfinch trigger warnings apply - specifically for this one, drug and alcohol use and a suicide attempt

There’s a bit of a skip in Boris’ step when he returns to the hotel. The newspaper is carefully folded and tucked inside his pocket; he keeps touching it through the fabric as if it’s going to disappear somehow. His heart is still racing with adrenaline, a joyous air surrounding him like a cloud of smoke from his cigarette.

_We saved the day, Potter!_ he practices silently. The front desk clerk is eyeing him suspiciously as he dials Theo’s room number.

“No answer,” he tells Boris.

“That can’t be right.” Boris shakes his head. “Try again.”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“Come on. I know him! I can give you his name, his room number — his birthday, his mother’s name, whatever! Social security!” Not that he actually knows _that_, but it’s about the point he’s making, not the facts.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you up there without his permission.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Boris rolls his eyes.

The clerk raises an eyebrow and narrows his gaze. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Just let me up, would you?”

“Sorry, no.”

Boris makes a face. “Fine.” 

He turns to leave, and the clerk returns to working on his computer. Boris glances over his shoulder, then walks as casually as he can to the stairwell. He checks once more to make sure the man isn’t watching him, then races up the stairs as quickly as he can. His heart is pounding with his chest as he sprints down the hallway for Theo’s room.

Banging his fist on the door, he calls, “Potter! I’m back!”

The door is slightly ajar, held open by a newspaper shoved between it and the doorframe. When there’s no answer from inside the room, Boris pushes the door open.

“Potter!”

The room is trashed, the sheets falling off of the bed and empty bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. Boris’ heart stops as his eyes fall on Theo’s form, spread out in the middle of the mattress.

“Potter?”

No response.

“Potter.”

He rushes forward and grabs onto the collar of Theo’s shirt, lifting him up off of the bed. Theo’s head drops limply. His skin is as white as the shirt he’s wearing. Boris’ mouth is dry, and he feels as though he might puke. He starts cursing underneath his breath, strings of swear words with no real beginning or end. He forces himself to stop and think — deep breath. He can handle this. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

There are pill bottles on the dresser. Boris swears again. Pills, alcohol, God knows what mixture of chemicals sitting in Theo’s stomach right now.

“Potter. Potter.” He needs to get Theo up. He needs to throw up whatever is in his system before they can do real damage. He shakes Theo’s shoulders, gently at first, then more roughly when Theo still fails to respond. “Potter, come on.” Theo’s head lolls to the side, glasses slipping farther down his nose. “Potter,” Boris pleads again, then more desperately, “_Theo._” He lifts Theo up off of the bed, but the dead weight of his body is more than Boris was expecting, and he stumbles underneath it.

A noise in the doorway. A housekeeper stands, stock-still, her eyes wide, staring at the scene before her. She rushes inside the room and tries to nudge Boris out of the way, reaching for Theo’s wrist.

“No!” Boris snaps, clutching Theo tighter. “Get out! I’ve got it!’

She says something in Dutch, then, when it’s clear that he hadn’t understood a word, repeats in choppy English, “Let me see. He may need doctor.”

“No. No doctors.” But she’s already nudging him out of her way. Theo’s body falls back onto the bed. Boris surges forward to grab him again, lifting his shoulders up off of the mattress and shaking him again. “Theo, come on, I swear—” The woman places two fingers on the inside of Theo’s wrist and waits for a moment, eyes closed, then shakes her head. Boris looks up at her, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes. “I can handle him! Just let me—”

“I call ambulance. Now.”

“No,” Boris begs weakly, sliding down onto his knees, hands clasped around Theo’s. “No doctors!” The woman doesn’t pay any attention to him, and she rushes for the phone. It feels as if he’s sliding in and out of consciousness, only half able to hear the conversation she’s having in rapid Dutch. “Potter,” he whispers. Theo’s eyelids flutter, and Boris’ heart leaps in chest. “_Theo._” But then Theo’s head rolls to the side again, and there’s no indication that he can hear a word that Boris is saying. Boris presses his fingers against Theo’s pulse — it’s there, but weak, fluttering underneath his skin like a butterfly fresh out of its chrysalis, beating and alive but barely. “Theo,” he mumbles again, lifting Theo’s wrist to his lips.

Once the housekeeper hangs up the phone, everything moves too quickly for Boris to keep track of. The room is suddenly crowded, medics shoving in around Boris and ripping Theo away from him, not even paying attention as Boris falls back onto the floor, his face as pale as a corpse. They strap Theo onto a stretcher, and Boris can feel himself yelling without hearing his own voice, and he’s chasing them down the hallway, stumbling over himself and pleading with them to leave Theo _alone_, to let Boris take care of him. Someone puts a hand on Boris’ shoulder, and he pushes them off, surging forward to follow Theo. 

There is an ambulance out front, its lights flashing and back door open, another two EMTs waiting to grab onto Theo’s stretcher and pull him inside. There is another arm around Boris, holding him back from charging into the ambulance.

“Theo! Goddamnit, let me go!” He struggles in his captor’s arms, but the man refuses to let go, and Boris watches helplessly as they load Theo into the ambulance, shut the door, and speed away, the siren shattering the air around them. He drops onto his knees on the cold sidewalk and registers hot tears falling down his cheeks.

The man who had stopped him from following Theo is kneeling next to him, one hand firm on Boris’ shoulder. “They’re taking him to the hospital,” he tells Boris quietly, as if Boris is stupid enough not to know. His voice, at the very least, is pleasant, a subtle Dutch accent with a hint of German or Polish. “We can get you a ride there, too. They’re going to make sure he’s okay, yeah? He’s in good hands.”

Boris’ heart is sinking deeper and deeper into his chest. He can still feel the weak flutter of Theo’s pulse underneath his hand.

“It’s gonna be alright. I’m Henry.” The guy pats Boris’ back in what he seems to think is a comforting manner. “We’ll get you a car, okay?”

He isn’t been able to respond, but Henry does it anyway, talking quietly with a few hotel staffers that had come out to see what all of the ruckus was about. Boris sits silently in the backseat of the car, staring straight ahead at the cracked leather of the driver’s seat. His blood rushes in his ears, his mind caught somewhere between moving too quickly for him to process anything, and forcing him to see the same image of Theo over and over again: lying limply in the middle of his hotel bed, a chipped shot glass balanced in his hand, looking for all the world like a man waiting for death to come collect him.

* * *

After three hours of waiting for any updates from Theo’s doctor, the nurse suggests that Boris go back to the hotel and collect Theo’s things — he’s not bound to wake up for a while longer, and it will be nice for him to have his own clothes, she says. Boris can’t bring himself to argue, so he forces himself out of the chair outside Theo’s door and hails himself a taxi.

When he returns to the hotel, the front desk clerk gives him a nasty look. Unperturbed, Boris holds up the key to Theo’s room with a raised eyebrow and a clenched jaw, jutting his chin out and daring the man to challenge him. The clerk shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t try to stop Boris as he heads for the stairwell.

It’s not like Theo has much stuff anyway — he left New York with only one bag, and Boris is debating whether he should stop by somewhere and buy a few changes of clothes for each of them when something catches his eye. The corner of an envelope is sticking out from underneath a book on the desk. Boris pulls it out. Written on the front in neat cursive is his name — unmistakably Theo’s handwriting, though it’s changed substantially since they were kids. Long gone is the messy scrawl that covered his school assignments, replaced with beautiful script that looks almost as if it was done by a calligrapher.

It is blatantly obvious from the first look what this is, and there’s a sour taste in Boris’ mouth. He had suspected, of course — Theo was always on the verge of it, back when they were kids, but things are _okay_ now, and they’re both safe, and the painting is back — except, he realizes, that Theo doesn’t know that. Theo, he realizes, wasn’t expecting Boris to come back for him. _Potter, you idiot,_ he thinks bitterly.

Boris looks around the room, as if there would be anyone watching, then opens the envelope with shaking hands. The page of hotel stationary is covered, black ink bleeding in some spots where something had dripped onto it. Boris doesn’t want to think of what that might have been.

_Boris,_

_I’ve started this letter a half a dozen times already. As usual, when it comes to you, I’m not quite sure what to say, or how to say it. There’s an infinite list of things that I want to tell you, but there’s no way for me to communicate any of it. I don’t know if I was hoping to see you once more, or if it’s better like this. I don’t know if I could follow through after seeing you again. So, maybe it is better this way._

Boris’ heart leaps into his throat. If he had gotten back earlier — if he hadn’t been held up in traffic, if he had started out earlier, if he had done anything differently — he could have gotten back to Theo sooner, and this wouldn’t be happening. He takes a deep, shaky breath. His fault. Above all, his fault.

_I’m tired. That’s all I have to say for the reasoning behind this. And I know you’d have some snarky response to that (I can see your expression in my head right now — put your eyebrow down and wipe that look off your face). But I’ve tried, Boris. For so long. I’m tired. What is there left for me to do? The painting is gone. I lost it. For good, this time. There’s no coming back from that, not for me. Maybe for you. But it never was the same for you as it was for me. And I’m tired. Of the running, of the hiding, of the wanting to die. What’s the point? (And yes, I’m sure you have a million responses for that, because you always do. I’ve thought of all of them. And here’s what I’ve decided: there is no point)._

_This feels like the point at which an apology is necessary. I suppose I am sorry — for leaving you to deal with this, for the fact that I’m forcing you to pick up my burdens and carry them from now on. You don’t need to explain it to anyone; I’ll do that for you. There’s a stack of letters to go along with this one. You’ll find them. But do me one favor? Tell Hobie thank you for me. For everything. Pay him a visit. Stick around if you can. He gets lonely — and I’m sure he’d love to show you the workshop. I’m sorry, not for what I’m doing, but for what it’s going to do to you. At this point, it just feels natural, doesn’t it? I’ve been careening towards the edge of a ravine for years. If my life were a novel, this would be the moment of some grand revelation — the existence of a higher purpose, an actual reason for being. My reason for being was protecting the painting, and I’ve fucked that up. It’s gone. Even one of your miracles can’t fix what I’ve done this time around._

Here, there’s a larger space between paragraphs, and a few dashes of ink, as if Theo sat here for ages, tapping his pen against the paper and deciding what to say.

_I guess, if all of this is coming to an end, there is one thing I should tell you that I meant to tell you forever ago._

_I love you._

_Which seems, at this point, almost arbitrary, doesn’t it? It’s too late for it either way. That wasn’t the intention (though it might be hard to believe). I’ve meant to tell you before — a million times would be an undercount. All of those nights in Vegas… I came close. But I didn’t want to scare you away. I thought that, if anything, you were the one who thought we were more than we ever let on. I thought that if I told you this, it would either send you running or lead to things that I didn’t have the capacity to handle. I could barely handle you as it was. I wanted to keep you the way we were, whatever that was. Never did quite figure that out._

_Fate is a funny thing, isn’t it? You have to wonder if maybe there has been something guiding us along. Maybe we’re inevitable. Loving you was, at the very least. I had no chance. I’d like to think I fought back against it, but the God’s honest truth is that I never even tried. The truth is that I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you. It scared me. It made me wonder why, if fate does exist, it would put me through everything that happened just to get to you. There were nights I wondered — was losing my mother worth it to get you? I still don’t know which answer to that question is worse. I always thought it would be no. No, it wasn’t worth it to lose her, no matter what I gained from it. But some of those nights, the answer was a definitive yes. Yes, it was worth it. Because of what I did gain from it. Because, without that, I wouldn’t have had you. It was worth it because of you. Because I loved you, and you — however you felt about me — and I felt invincible. But then I lost you, too, and it seemed as if fate was playing some cruel joke on me. A punishment from the universe. Never enough good in me to even cancel out the bad, much less overcome it. If I believed that fate had brought us together, then it followed that fate was pushing us apart again. And who am I to fight back against fate?_

_But, yes, I love you. Loved, love, will love._

_If loving you was inevitable, you were inevitable, too. The universe still asks me every day: Was it worth it?_

_Yes._

_Yours,_

_Potter._

There are tears streaming down Boris’ cheeks. He doesn’t remember when they started falling. He doesn’t know how long he’s stood here, staring at the page, words blurring together into a smudge of ink. His fingers trembling, he brushes them over the lines, over and over again until there is black staining his skin. Theo sat here and wrote this out, a cramped page of words for Boris and Boris alone, an apology and a confession and absolute heartbreak in the neat script.

His eyes keep focusing back in on the same line: _I love you._

Theo loves him.

Theo still loves him.

_Loved, love, will love._

And suddenly, the jagged puzzle pieces of Boris’ life fall into place. Vegas — the confusing, quick, filthy touches in the dark of Theo’s bedroom, the agonized gasps, the flushed warmth of Theo’s skin underneath his lips. The unreadable expressions in Theo’s eyes when Boris looked at him from across the room, the break in Theo’s voice as he rambled off confession after confession, the desperate way he clung onto Boris as he whispered _It was my fault_ and _It should’ve been me_ and _I should be dead_. New York — the shock in Theo’s voice when Boris followed him outside the bar, the honesty in the way he talked about his life, the relief clear in his face when he caught Boris’ eye at the engagement party, the immediate agreement to follow Boris to Amsterdam. And Amsterdam — the trust that Theo has placed in him, the willingness to follow along with whatever Boris told him to do, the shaky intake of breath in the parking garage, Boris’ forehead pressed against his, a heartbeat away from pressing their lips together. Theo’s hand trembling around the gun, Boris’ vision going in and out as he lay on the cold ground, arm throbbing, the lack of hesitation as Theo pulled the trigger.

And through it all, the expressions and the laughter and the cries for help and the soft touches and the highs, a common thread: _loved, love, will love._

Boris lifts the paper to his face and presses his lips to where Theo has signed _Yours._

After another moment, he folds the letter carefully and puts it back into the envelope, then slides it into his pocket. There is another stack of envelopes on the edge of the desk, and Boris takes them with shaking hands. _Hobie. Pippa. Kitsey._ They’re sealed, not for Boris to open. He shakes his head and rips each envelope in half, then drops the shreds into the trash can. The letters are no longer necessary. If there are things that Theo needs to tell people, he can tell them in person, not from beyond the grave. There are things that Theo needs to tell Boris, and things that Boris needs to tell Theo.

Boris loves him. Loved, love, will love.

Whatever fate has to do with it, they’re back together, and Theo loves him, and Boris isn’t going to let anything pull them apart again.

* * *

He returns to the hospital with Theo’s duffel bag, plus a new sweater from one of the shops he passed on the way back. The man at the front desk meets his eyes and smiles sympathetically. Boris tightens his expression; he doesn’t want to be pitied. He wants to see Theo.

They finally allow him to go into Theo’s room. He’s still asleep, but his vitals are steadier now, the nurse informs him. Likely to wake up soon. Just had to get all of the nasty stuff out of his system, give his body a chance to start repairing itself. She says this as if Boris has never had experience with overdoses before, but he keeps his mouth shut. The staff here don’t need to know every detail of Boris’ past. It’s bad enough that they’re even in the hospital; it would be too easy for someone to track them down. There are a lot of people out there who would love to see Boris dead at the moment. He has to remind himself that no one actually knows who Theo is. They’re safe, for the time being.

The room is eerily quiet and barren. It’s clean and white, weak winter light coming in through the window, looking like something out of a horror movie set in a psych ward. Without Theo’s warmth, everything inside the room feels lifeless. Boris sits in the chair next to the bed, one of those chairs that looks like it should be comfortable but feels as if he’s sitting on a concrete wall, and waits, holding Theo’s limp hand in his own.

Theo looks older without his glasses. The boy Boris fell in love with in Vegas is long gone, but underneath it, buried deeply underneath expensive suits and charming, fake smiles and checks with five zeroes, Theo — his Theo — is still there. Boris brushes his thumb carefully across the back of Theo’s hand, and a piece of writing comes to mind, a line he can’t remember the source of, or who he heard it from, or when, but it’s there all the same: _I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world._

Despite everything that has happened to him, Boris still, selfishly, thinks of Theo as _his_. It’s the jealous streak that began a decade ago, the sour taste in his mouth when Theo received attention from anyone but Boris. It’s traveled with Boris like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, and he can’t get rid of it. It made a reappearance every time the painting was passed from hand to hand, when anyone who wasn’t Boris would take it and get their grimy hands on it and not know the right way to protect it. It made a reappearance when Boris first realized that there was a woman in Theo’s life, a high class girl in pretty dresses and perfectly done makeup, the most beautiful in any room she stepped into — the kind of person who looked as if she belonged next to Theo, his bespoke suits and expensive artwork and his faux-laugh that he brought into conversations with the Barbours’ social circle. The jealousy has been stewing inside of Boris’ chest since the first day he realized that Theo was his best friend, and only got deeper and more rancid as Boris stumbled towards falling in love with him. It comes when Boris watches Theo interact with others — people who think they know Theo. Boris can almost laugh at how wrong they are.

No one on earth knows Theo the way he does. If they did, it would scare them away. If they could see through the veneer that Theo has built up since Boris last saw him, they would realize just how broken he is — how broken both of them are, how their broken pieces fit back together. They don’t know his Theo.

_I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came,_ Boris thinks, and closes his eyes, brushing his fingers over the back of Theo’s hand, retracing the lines of his veins and bumps of his knuckles that he memorized when they were kids and never let himself forget. He holds his own breath for a moment to listen to Theo’s, the soft, calming rhythm that lulled him to sleep on so many nights.

_I love you,_ he thinks, and opens his eyes, watches Theo’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. His hand twitches in Boris’, and Boris bites his bottom lip. There’s a few more moments of tiny movements, almost unnoticeable, before Theo’s eyes open slowly. He blinks in confusion and looks around.

Boris swallows the lump in his throat. “Theo,” he whispers.

“Boris?” Theo’s voice is weak and scratchy.

“Theo.” A smile breaks onto Boris’ face, and the tears he was holding back begin to fall. “_Theo._”

“What—?”

“You’re okay,” Boris tells him, tightening his grip on Theo’s hand. “Everything is okay.”

Theo’s head falls back onto the pillow, and he nods uncertainly, weakly squeezing Boris’ hand. Boris stands and presses a kiss to Theo’s hairline, then presses their foreheads together for a heartbeat before he forces himself to step back and hurry to the door to wave down a passing nurse.

There’s another few moments before he’s allowed back to Theo’s side, a few _agonizing_ moments where all he can do is hover just outside the room, peeking in to watch the doctor talk quietly to Theo. He can tell that Theo is tired and confused and _scared_, and Theo keeps looking around the room as if he’s searching for something — searching for Boris. And then they let him back in, and he’s throwing himself on top of Theo and burying his face against his neck and whispering _Theo Theo Theo Theo_ into his skin, and Theo is wrapping an arm around Boris, hand on the small of his back, and holding him down against his own body.

“I’m okay,” Theo murmurs. “Boris.” Boris nods and pulls away, wiping his nose with his sleeve and sniffling pathetically. The medical staff has wisely left the room, giving them their own space for the moment. “Boris.”

“Potter.” Boris smiles weakly.

“What—”

“I came back to the hotel and you — you were.” He swallows hard, waving his hand. “Alcohol. Pills. I was trying to get you up, and then this idiot cleaning lady barged in and called the ambulance, I didn’t want her to, I tried to stop her—”

“Boris.”

“—because I could have _handled_ it, we did not need doctors, I have done this before—”

“_Boris._” Theo meets his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Boris furrows his eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t—”

“Potter, you were trying to kill yourself.”

Theo shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t — you don’t understand, I—”

“Potter,” Boris says softly. He pulls the folded envelope out of his pocket. At the sight of it, Theo’s face goes pale, and something clicks.

“Boris, that wasn’t—”

“A suicide note, no? One of several?” Theo’s mouth transforms into a thin line, and he nods slowly. Boris clears his throat and slips the envelope back into his pocket.

“You read it.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

He looks briefly exasperated. “For _that_. I never meant… you know the state of mind I was in when I wrote that, it’s not all necessarily true—”

Boris tilts his head to the side. A smile is threatening to make its way onto his face, and in lighter circumstances, it would have. “So, you lie? The last correspondence you ever give me, and you lie?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That is what you said.”

“Boris,” he says, his eyes begging Boris to either shut up or get to the point. It’s an expression that Boris is more than familiar with.

“Theo.” He’s nearly whispering, worried that if he speaks too loudly, it will shatter whatever is still holding them together. “Is it true, what you wrote?”

“Which part?”

“You are going to make me say it?” Theo shrugs, eyes soft and scared behind his glasses. Boris shakes his head. “It was worth it. You are in love with me.”

The sentence hangs in the air between them. There is no oxygen in Boris’ lungs — it’s caught in his throat, threatening to choke him. The universe has shrunken to encompass nothing but this room, the inevitable heat-death of the sun exploding in the space between their bodies, in the space between where Theo’s hand lays limply on the mattress and where Boris’ fingers twitch, desperate to reach out for him.

If he had told him, would they be here? If Boris had told him when he was supposed to, in that brief moment before Theo got into the cab, when it felt as though time stood still as long as Theo kept looking at him, as long as the taxi remained idle behind him, as long as the moon stayed put there it hung in the sky. If instead of delaying it, Boris had _told_ him, screaming for the world to hear that he was in love with Theo. If he had, would Theo had stayed — would Boris have gone with him? If Theo had given him just a day, even less, where would they be now? Who would Boris be, if he hadn’t lost Theo?

“It’s true,” Theo finally says, averting his gaze as he does. “All of it.”

“Potter.” Boris swallows the lump in his throat. “_Theo_. Look. Look at me.”

No movement; Boris takes a step closer to the bed, carefully bringing his hand underneath Theo’s chin and lifting his face. They stare at each other for a moment, the tension between them growing and wrapping around Boris’ entire body, constricting his chest and causing his heartbeat to stutter. Theo’s lips part, and he starts to shake his head, trying to throw Boris’ touch off, but Boris slides his hand to cup Theo’s jaw and leans in, slowly enough not to startle him but quickly enough that he still takes him by surprise as he presses their lips together.

Just like the night Theo left Las Vegas, he doesn’t return the gesture. When Boris pulls away, Theo is staring at him, wide-eyed with mouth agape, a light pink tinge on his cheeks. Boris shakes his head.

“Theo,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across Theo’s cheek.

“I love you.” It’s barely a whisper, more of an exhale, and Theo averts his eyes as he says it.

“Good.” Boris smiles. “Was hoping that you were not lying to me.”

“Boris.”

“Yes, Potter?”

“Are you—”

“In love with you?” He raises an eyebrow. “I thought that much was obvious.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Potter,” Boris interrupts him to kiss him again. “Listen to me. I love you. Loved, love, will love. Have loved you since we were kids, _идиот_. Why do you think I got your painting, hm?” Theo shrugs halfheartedly. Boris rolls his eyes. “Move over.” At Theo’s confused expression, Boris sighs and taps his side. “Move. I want to sit.”

The bed isn’t quite big enough for both of them to sit comfortably, but they make it work. It’s not much different to when they arranged themselves in their beds in Vegas — twin sized mattresses, a mess of gangly teenage limbs, always a space saved for Popchyk down at their feet. Theo fidgets with a thread on the sleeve of his sweater, twisting it around his finger.

“Potter,” Boris hums again. “Talk to me.”

“About?”

“The letter.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” He raises an eyebrow. “It was true, no? So, why only put it in writing? We are here right now. You are not dead. No letter necessary.”

“I’m not supposed to be alive right now.”

Boris’ heart clenches painfully. “Theo,” he says gently. “You are. You are _lucky_, do you hear me? Lucky that I found you. Not so lucky that the lady called the doctor — hospitals are no good, I could have handled it, if she only gave me a minute — but lucky, yes? You are lucky that I am always there to save your dumb ass when you do these things.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back.” 

Boris shakes his head. “I am always going to come back for you, Potter. You thought I would leave you?”

“I thought you might be dead.”

“I am immortal,” he boasts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cannot be killed.”

“You were shot.”

“Only a graze! I know how to take care of myself.” His arm is still sore, but it’s not going to kill him. He’s faced worse (though he doesn’t mention that to Theo. He worries too much). “I am sorry for the radio silence, but I did not have a chance to call you. Bit of a sticky situation. But I was always coming back. You need to trust me.”

“I do,” Theo says quietly, earnestly, immediately.

_Trust me, Potter._ The mantra repeated over and over when they were young and stupid, when Boris was trying to coerce Theo into any number of questionable acts — shoplifting, smoking, snorting Vicodin, running from the mall cops, laughter bubbling out of their chests as they sprinted down the street, stolen goods clutched in their hands and stuffed in their pockets. The mantra whispered in the dark, when there would be a moment of hesitation as Boris reached out for him — _Trust me, Potter._ And Theo would relax, and accept Boris’ hands on him, and his head would fall back, and his eyes would close, looking like a piece of art himself, smudged brushstrokes and careful shading. _Trust me, Potter._

There are few people in Boris’ life that he trusts the way he trusts Theo. It’s inherent, subconscious — he doesn’t have to think about it, he just _does_. The world feels, if not safer, brighter with Theo at his side. Boris would run into a burning building without hesitation, as long as Theo was behind him. There has never been a relationship in Boris’ life that has matched what he and Theo had — what they have, still, a decade later. No foundations like those he has with Theo. No _love_.

“I will always come back,” he tells him again. “Could take me days, could take me years. But I will always come back. You do not have to worry about that. I am never leaving you for good. No goodbyes here.”

Theo rests his head on Boris’ shoulder, letting his body relax against Boris’. His hair is soft and ticklish on Boris’ neck. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not.”

“No, let me — I have to, Boris.” His hand finds Boris’. “For what I did to you.”

“You have not done anything to me that requires an apology.” Boris shakes his head. “I have done a million worse things to you. I — I stole your bird from you. There is no forgiveness for that. I am surprised you do not hate me, still.”

“Don’t be stupid. I didn’t even know you had taken it. How could I hate you?” There’s a pause, as if he’s waiting for Boris to answer the question, but he receives no response. “Anyway, I’m sorry. For leaving. For not asking you to come with me. For not telling you everything when I should have.”

“Can we make a promise now?”

“Sure.”

“No more secrets. No more lying. Between us, we are honest, yes? No reason not to tell each other the truth.”

There’s relief in Theo’s voice when he says, “Promise.”

“We don’t have to talk anymore, if you don’t want,” Boris tells him gently. “I just wanted to let you know. There is a point. You do not have to believe me, and maybe you do not. But there is a point. Okay? Even if it is nothing more than this.” _This._ Us, he means. “This could be the point. Is still a point, and one worth living for, if you ask my opinion.”

“Okay.”

“Potter?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” He looks down to catch the small smile on Theo’s lips, then lifts their hands and kisses Theo’s knuckles — the same place he used to press his mouth after their fights, after Theo punched a wall or a door or Boris’ face in anger, splitting the skin and leaving dried blood caked over his hands, the place that Boris would kiss and carefully wash under the warm running water in Theo’s bathroom. “You are stupid, yes, you _идиот_, but I love you.”

“I’m told that’s part of my charm,” Theo jokes half-heartedly, and Boris is so relieved by the fact that he’s telling jokes that he laughs with his entire chest, the sound filling the room and taking Theo by surprise.

“The very definition of charming, yes. Irresistibly charming.”

Theo readjusts himself against the pillow and lets out a long sigh. There’s a knock on the door, and Theo tenses against Boris’ side when it opens, but he relaxes quickly as Boris squeezes his hand where they’re clasped together between them. Boris offers a charming smile to the nurse, who looks briefly surprised by the position they’re in, but doesn’t say anything about it. Theo obediently holds out his other arm and lets her check his vitals and adjust his IV. He looks away as she does, not quite hiding his face against Boris, but staring very hard at the side of his head.

The nurse — Cornelia, it says on her ID badge — makes friendly conversation as she works, continuing to babble even without a single response from Theo save for when she asks him how he’s feeling, and he answers “Fine.” Boris looks at her apologetically, but she shakes her head. He assumes it isn’t that unusual, having a patient who doesn’t want to answer her questions, especially one in Theo’s situation. She continues chattering away until she wishes them a goodnight and leaves the room, turning off the light and shutting the door silently behind her, and they’re left in near darkness. Theo is so still that Boris would think he was already asleep if it weren’t for the unsteady rhythm of his breath.

“Potter?” Theo makes a noise in acknowledgement. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he repeats.

“Do not lie. Is a sin.”

“Fuck off.” There’s no bite behind it.

“Come on,” Boris says gently. He turns to look at Theo, who drops his head back against the pillow and sighs. “Is only me. No nurse. No invasive questions. So long as you are honest with me. You promised, remember?” Theo’s hand has gone limp in his, and he lets go, then settles his own hand on Theo’s thigh, lightly moving his fingers over the stiff sheet.

“I’m tired,” Theo tells him, voice small. “I’m just tired.”

_I’m tired._ The note flashes back into Boris’ mind, the envelope burning a hole in his pocket, but he pushes it away.

“So sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

There’s a pause before he admits, “Nightmares.”

Boris shakes his head. “Let them try to come. I will scare them away. Am tough and strong.” He makes an angry face, baring his teeth, which prompts a soft laugh from Theo, and the sound is more beautiful than any music Boris has ever heard. “You need to sleep, Potter. I will be right here.”

Theo opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but nods. He shifts over onto his side, facing away from Boris as he lays down. Boris settles in behind him and drapes an arm over his hip, over the blankets. He presses his lips gently to the back of Theo’s neck and feels him shiver. His skin is warm under Boris’ touch. As much as it hurts to see Theo like this — small, vulnerable, the facade of his high-class standing fallen away — he’s _alive_. His heart is beating, and his body is moving up and down underneath Boris’ arm with each breath, and soft noises escape his lips as he drifts out of consciousness. He’s alive. That’s all that matters. Boris presses his nose behind Theo’s ear and takes a breath, then mumbles a few lines in Russian — a lullaby without the melody, one of those he learned when he was four or five years old, one of those he used to mutter to Theo when he held him like this in Theo’s twin sized bed.

“I love you,” he whispers then, just because he can. Theo shifts back closer to Boris’ chest, and Boris tightens his arm around him. “I’ve got you, Potter.”

* * *

The doctor talks to them (both of them — Boris is not letting himself be kicked out again, and Theo tells the doctor that he can stay) again in the morning. They discuss Theo’s treatment, and what exactly happened, and what steps to take next, including, insistently, contacting a mental health professional and an addiction network. Theo is quiet during that part of the conversation, staring down at his hands. But Boris listens, and makes mental notes, and promises himself that he is going to make sure Theo takes care of himself. He gets Theo’s things together for him, packing his dirty clothes neatly into his bag and zipping it up. Theo stares blankly at the wall, too zoned out to do more than nod or shake his head when Boris asks him a question. He looks better than he did the previous day, but there are still dark circles underneath his eyes, and his hair is a far cry from his normal neat style. 

Theo signs the papers that release him back out into the world, and Boris stands off to the side, watching the silent news playing on a television in the waiting room. A friendly-looking woman is speaking, and there is a photo of the painting next to her. Boris smiles, small and secretive, and glances back at Theo, who meets his eyes and nods towards the exit.

He waits until it’s just the two of them, recovering from the whirlwind of the past couple of days over coffee and warm scones at a cafe along the canal. In the hospital, it felt like people were watching them too carefully, like they never had a full moment of privacy except for the middle of the night, when Theo was soundly asleep and Boris could sit awake and watch him without worrying what a wandering nurse would see. He hasn’t gotten much sleep, too worried about Theo to close his eyes and fully relax, and the coffee is the closest thing to heaven he has ever tasted. He lifts his mug to his mouth and gazes at Theo over the top of it.

Theo stares at him, dumbstruck. Boris’ cheeks hurt from how much he’s smiling. Behind Theo’s eyes, Boris can see a million emotions racing through all at once.

“You returned it,” he says flatly.

“Of course.” Boris nods. “Well, no, not _of course_. I did not believe you at first. Thought you were stupid! Why would I call the police? But I trust you, so I call. And they take my tip, no questions asked. Is a bit more elaborate than that, but I do not want to bore you with the details. Not important. And they find your painting! Your little bird, safe and sound. Like a miracle.”

“A miracle,” Theo echoes.

_Even one of your miracles can’t fix what I’ve done this time around._

“Yes, Potter. A miracle. And, and, _and_ — they are right about the reward! More money than I have seen at once in my life, and you know how much money I have seen in my life. Incredible. I did not believe it when they told me. Enough for both of us. More than enough. We could buy a penthouse in your New York. One of the big, fancy ones. That looks over the park. A tree view!”

There’s a smile threatening its way onto Theo’s face. Confusion is making way for an impressed expression, Theo’s tongue poking out in between his teeth and one eyebrow slightly raised. It’s clear that all of the information is still being processed, but it’s beginning to sink in. 

“Oh!” Boris’ smile widens even farther. “Have not even told you the best part yet.” Theo furrows his eyebrows, waiting for Boris to continue. “When they found your bird? Found other paintings, too. Paintings that had been lost for good — or so they thought!” There’s a bright spark in his eye, a triumphant lilt in his voice. “Priceless art. All found because of us, Potter. Because of your idea. Your brain is good for something at last.” He reaches across the table and raps his knuckles against Theo’s forehead. Theo pushes Boris’ arm away, but appears too stunned to respond to his jab. “Is over now. All of it.”

“Other pieces?” he asks, looking as dumbfounded as he did when Boris told him they needed to leave for Amsterdam, a memory that feels like it took place a century ago.

“Yes! And reward for those, too. We are _rich_, my love.” It feels as natural rolling off his tongue as _Potter_ does, even if Theo is taken aback for a beat before a smile makes its way onto his lips. A relieved sigh escapes him, and his shoulders drop slightly with the air leaving his body. Boris brings Theo’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it, just above the gauze covering the mark from his IV.

He may not understand why any of the art is valued as highly as it is — save for Theo’s bird, it all just seems ridiculous to him. Why should a bunch of pots or a canvas with some oil paint on it be worth millions of dollars? But he isn’t one to question those things, especially not when they’ve brought him stacks upon stacks of cash (metaphorically — in reality, it’s not quite as cinematic as a suitcase full of bills). There’s enough money to gift each member of his little crew with a hefty Christmas gift, with plenty left over for him and Theo. So, sure, art is worth something. Art that brings him back to Theo is worth more.

It’s snowing outside when they leave the cafe, and the sleeve of Theo’s sweater is sliding down to cover both of their hands where they’re clasped together.

“What now?” Theo asks.

“You tell me.” Boris reaches up to brush a few snowflakes off of Theo’s shoulder. There is already a thin layer of snow on the grass, and it’s starting to collect on the sidewalk, as well. “I told you I have a flat near here, no? Antwerp. Hour and a half by train. Could be there tonight, if you want.”

Theo shakes his head slowly. “I think… I think I want to go home.”

“Home?”

“New York.” Of course. Boris silently chastises himself for thinking that Theo would want to stay in Europe for any longer than necessary. At the very least, they need to get out of Amsterdam.

“We can get a flight out soon. There must be some leaving today. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“We?” Theo echoes.

“Of course, _we_.” Boris raises an eyebrow. “You think I am going to let you go back alone? After all this? Ha! You are stupider than I thought, Potter. I need to get you home. And to a shrink, probably.” Theo makes a face at that, but Boris holds his gaze steadily. He’s not one to recommend a psychologist, not usually, but from the research he’s done and the stories that he’s heard, it’s the first thing that Theo should do once he gets back to New York. And there’s no way that he’s going to follow through on that unless Boris is there to push him into it.

“I thought you might have other things you have to take care of.”

Boris shrugs. There are other things, there always are, but they can wait. “Nothing as important as you.”

A slight pinkish tinge comes to Theo’s cheeks. “Sure.”

“Am serious. I do not lie to you.” He meets Theo’s gaze steadily. “Let me come home with you. We’ll figure out what we do next. Together.”

He isn’t going to let Theo go. Not this time. Not again. He’s spent most of his life now trying to reel Theo back in, to grab onto him and keep him from fluttering away like a frightened bird. There isn’t going to be another taxi that Boris doesn’t get into. He’s promised himself before, over and over and over, that wherever Theo goes, he’s following along right next to him. Whatever happens next, Boris refuses to lose Theo again. As if he’s sealing the promise, he grabs onto the lapel of Theo’s jacket and kisses him. Theo’s lips are soft against his, still a slight hesitation when he returns the kiss, but a comfort underneath it, too. When they pull away, Boris keeps his grip on Theo’s coat and presses their foreheads together. They take a breath in sync, and Theo’s entire body relaxes.

Theo lifts his head to kiss Boris’ forehead, then whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He smiles. “Now. A flight to New York, yes? Two tickets, first class.”

Theo laughs breathily as he moves his head back to look down at Boris. “First class, sure. Lots of leg room.”

“And champagne.”

“Are we celebrating?”

“We have a million things to celebrate, _милый_.” Boris kisses him again. “Your bird. The money. The fact that you are not dead right now. The fact that you are not a liar. And that you are still willing to put up with my bullshit.”

“Your bullshit?” Theo asks incredulously. “Boris, yours is _nothing_ compared to mine.”

“Maybe so.” Boris smiles wickedly. “If we’re only talking about bullshit, and not about other things, no?”

“Jesus Christ. You are something else.”

He kisses the corner of Theo’s mouth once more for good measure before stepping back. “You’re going to freeze to death out here, Potter. We will head to airport, first flight home. Good plan?”

Theo nods, staring at Boris with an expression that is, for once, unreadable. Boris hails them a cab, and they get in together, knees pressed against one another’s. The city around them is slowly becoming covered in snow. Bright Christmas lights wrap around lampposts and tree trunks, making the whole scene look like something straight from a Hallmark movie. Theo’s hand finds Boris’ in the middle of the seats, and he holds on tightly when Boris laces their fingers together. Boris glances over at him, but Theo is staring out the window, soft yellow light reflecting on his face. Boris smiles to himself.

Theo — the only person who Boris has ever truly loved, the only person who has ever truly loved him. Boris has gone through hell and back for him and would again, again, again, again, again. Boris has crossed the globe chasing Theo’s heart, and faced death with Theo at his side, and pulled Theo from the fire, and he would do it again, a million times over, in every lifetime, just to ensure that Theo stays right where he is, with Boris, as it should be.

And the universe asks him: _Was it worth it?_

And he answers: _Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from "black butterflies and déjà vu" by the maine (definitely give it a listen). someone on tumblr requested hurt/comfort, and i may have gone a little bit overboard but honestly? no regrets. sorry if this hurts. leave kudos and comments if you liked it and follow me on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic


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